THE BATTLE OF BETAZEDStar Trek: The Next Generation series
Mass Market Paperback
ISBN: 074343434X
Publisher: Pocket BooksPub. Date: April 2002

"Vaughn to Troi."

Deanna sighed and stopped in midstride down the corridor leading to the
counsoler's office, knowing Vaughn's call meant the next phase of unpleasantness was about
to begin. She steeled herself and tapped her combadge. "Troi here."

"Please meet me in holodeck two in half an hour for combat
drills," Vaughn phrased his words as a request, but the underlying hardness in
his deep voice made his request seem more like an order.

"Commander, is this necessary?" Troi asked. "I have a
great deal of paperwork"

"Table it," Vaughn said. "We have little time
until the mission, and a great deal of ground to cover beforehand. I want you ready."

"Ready for what?"

"For anything."

Deanna hesitated. She had continued to sharpen her combat skills when she
had the chance, but she suspected Vaughn wouldn't consider her abilities up to the needs
of the mission. On the other hand, a physical workout would probably do her some good. No
doubt Vaughn knew that.

She couldn't help recalling, however, that her least favorite courses at
Starfleet Academy had been those in hand-to-hand combat, where close contact made tuning
out her opponent's emotions impossible. In her subsequent Starfleet assignments, she'd had
to kill on occasion, both in self-defense and to protect the lives of others, but those
deaths haunted her. With her empathic abilities, she had felt her enemies' pain,
had sensed their fear, and their spirits draining away until only soulless void remained.
Each time she'd been compelled to take a life, something of her had died with the victim.
And it didn't end with enemies, either.

"How long since your last refresher course in hand-to-hand
combat?" Vaughn's voice demanded over her comm link.

"Too long," Deanna admitted. "And I should warn you,
Commander, I've never had much of a killing instinct. Most Betazoids don't."

Deanna sighed again and would have laughed at Vaughn's little joke, if
the situation weren't so deadly serious. In recent years, Starfleet had designed a uniform
variant specifically for ground based combat operations. Characterized by their padded
black fabricunbroken except for the division-specific stripe of color that cut across
the chest, shoulders, and backthe uniforms were supposed to be referred to as
"surface operations blacks." Of course, it wasn't long before somebody shortened
the name to "S.O.B.," a designation that was quickly extended to anyone who put
on the uniform. Deanna had never expected to be involved in a mission that required her to
don the garment, and wondered how much of the nickname was self-fulfilling.

After detouring back to her quarters and quickly replicating the uniform,
she put it on and stood in front of the mirror for a few minutes, feeling ridiculous and
trying not the think about how dark all of Starfleet's uniforms had become in the last few
years. It was, she believed, symptomatic of a fundamental shift in the Federation's
cultural psychology, a response to the growing number of threats in an increasingly
hostile universe. Her days of wearing flowing azure dresses on the bridge were long gone.

Now Vaughn required her to wear this. She thought again about
Betazed, about the effect she feared Tevren's knowledge might have upon it. And part of
her wondered if Vaughn was now doing the same thing to her: turning her into a stranger
that the Deanna Troi of ten years ago would have reviled.

Vaughn. When she had met him earlier that morning, Deanna had
still been coping with the news of the defeat at Starbase 19, and so had spared little
thought for the man himself. Now, as she thought back to this morning's meeting, she
reviewed the unconscious impressions she been to preoccupied to consider at the time, and
compared them to what she recalled of his infrequent visits to the Troi household decades
ago.

Deanna's earliest memories of Vaughn went back to childhood, years before
her empathic abilities had developed. He'd been a friend and colleague of her father's
and, she recalled, a source of tension for her mother. Even back then he'd seemed old, and
Deanna remembered wondering, in the way children sometimes do, what had carved such deep
lines into the man's face, especially around his eyes. Those lines had cut even deeper in
the years since.

To Will and probably to most humans, Deanna realized, Vaughn seemed curt,
somehwat harsh, perhaps even a little condescending. But to her empathic sense, this was
an incomplete picture. There was a kind of "mist" around Vaughn, indicating he'd
had his guard up emotionallya fairly standard technique for officers involved with
advanced tactics and intelligence work, but only partially effective most of the time. The
mist meant should couldn't read him as clearly as, say, Captain Picard, but nor could it
keep certain intense emotional states from getting through. Even so, she found she'd only
picked up two clear emotions from Vaughn during the morning meeting: a self-directed
bitterness and, she now realized, a sincere concern for Deanna's well-being. Everything
else was white noise.

Accustomed to forming a generally accurate profile of someone after only
a first encounter, Troi was frustrated by her inability to see clearly past a veneer that
Vaughn had obviously spent years fortifying, precisely in order to discourage what she was
attempting. She wondered if her father had developed similar skills.

The thought completed a circuit in Deanna's mind, and she suddenly
recalled the last time she'd seen Vaughn, when she was only seven years old. He was there,
in their home on Betazed, speaking quietly to her mother just before a grief-stricken
Lwaxana had told young Deanna that Ian Andrew Troi was dead.

* * *

"Beverly?" Deanna reached the holodeck entrance just as the
doctor staggered out. Normally groomed immaculately, Beverly sagged against the corridor
wall, sweat dripping off her forehead, her hair a ratty tangle. Like Deanna, she too wore
her surface ops blacks. She patted her face with a towel and fought to draw air into her
lungs.

The doctor held up a hand to forestall Deanna's questions of concern.
"I'm all right."

"When did Commander Vaughn recruit you for the mission?" Deanna
asked.

"Right after he recruited Data," Beverly panted. She took a
moment to regain her breath. "I haven't had a workout like that since running through
the Celtris III scenarios with Jean-Luc and Worf."

Deanna scrutinized her friend with concern. The Federation wounded were
pouring into the sector, and every doctor at Starbase 133 had been working round the
clock. Not only did Beverly's face reveal exhaustion from her session with Vaughn, the
lines around her eyes had deepened, and the circles beneath them had darkened since
yesterday.

Deanna understood more than most that treating the injured brought its
own tolls. Beverly would know firsthand the horrors, the sacrifices, the losses of friends
and families and homes. And no matter how strong the physician's psyche, continuously
dealing with bad news and dying patients wore down even the most resilient souls. Small
wonder Beverly had accepted the assignment to Darona.

"He's waiting for you," the doctor said, straightening her
shoulders.

"What do you think of him?"

Beverly shrugged. "He's not the first hundred-year-old I've met who
could go up against holographic opponents, or even real ones. Most people don't give it
much thought, but there are actually a lot more active centenarian humans in Starfleet
than is generally known. One of the benefits of an ever-lengthening lifespan." She
smiled wryly. "Just the same, I'm glad Vaughn's on our side."

"You almost sound optimistic," Deanna said. "I wish I
could be."

Beverly put a hand on her friend's shoulder. "Deanna, Jean-Luc told
me a little about the issues you're struggling with. I can really only try to imagine what
you're going through right now. But let me ask you something. Do you think you have faith
in your friends on the Enterprise to do everything we can to help win back
Betazed?"

"Of course I do."

"Then you you need to have that same faith in your people back home.
Trust them to get through this without forgetting who they are."

"Easier said than done," Deanna said. "Tevren--"

"I know," Beverly said. "But I also know you. And if even
half the Betazoids are anything like you or your mother, I think Betazed will endure
whatever Tevren brings to it."

Deanna mustered a grateful smile and squeezed her friend's hand.
"Thanks, Beverly." And with an encouraging nod, the doctor set off for her
quarters, leaving Deanna staring at the holodeck doors.

Letting out a deep breath, she stepped forward. The doors parted at her
approach. Inside, she saw to her surprise that the holodeck walls were bare but for the
diode grid. No holographic environment. She'd expected a Darona simulation--a city street,
maybe the prison interior, with a squad of holographic Jem'Hadar waiting to ambush her.

Instead, she saw only Vaughn standing in the middle of the room, the red
stripe of his S.O.B. standing out against the otherwise black uniform. In contrast to
Beverly, he hadn't broken a sweat. And his breathing appeared to be perfectly even.

"Try to kill me," he instructed.

"I beg your pardon?"

He gestured her closer. "Make your best move."

She didn't advance but dropped into a widespread stance, left foot
forward, left fist up and ready for a jab. Keeping her weight on the balls of her feet,
she bounced lightly, slowly circling, sizing up her opponent for weakness.

She couldn't find any.

She feinted, moving in and out, testing his reaction but keeping her
distance. He didn't so much as blink.

"Come on, Deanna," he taunted softly. "Come get me. Take
me down."

She ignored his gibe and watched his blue eyes for a hint of movement.
Just because Vaughn had asked her to attack didn't mean he wouldn't do the same. And while
her offensive strikes weren't particularly powerful, she'd practiced her defensive
maneuvers more. She preferred him to attack her, so she could turn his superior strength
against him.

Not that she thought she had a chance against a combat veteran like
Vaughn, but she didn't want to embarrass herself completely either. He had more strength,
more stamina and decades more experience. She already knew how this exercise would end.
The question was simply how long she lasted.

"I'm only an old man," he taunted again. "Nothing in
comparison to the Jem'Hadar on Betazed." She circled lightly as Vaughn spoke.
"Did you know that before battle the Jem'Hadar perform a ritual ceremony? 'I am
dead,' they chant. 'As of this moment we are all dead. We go into battle to reclaim our
lives. This we do gladly because we are Jem'Hadar. Victory is life.'"

He stared at her with a penetrating gaze and repeated the chilling
incantation. "'Victory is life.' Come get me, Deanna."

"Is that an order, sir?" She kept her guard up, her eyes alert.

"Very good." He nodded approval. "You can't be taunted
into attacking. But then I never doubted your common sense." He shifted his stance
slightly. Mentally, she sensed his mind quickening to a higher state of vigilance. If she
hadn't been focused, she would have missed the tiny sign. Still she was barely prepared
for the force and swiftness of his attack.

Vaughn lunged with the speed and grace of a Bajoran hara cat. In
comparison, she deliberately slowed her reaction and feigned clumsiness, dropping to her
buttocks and back on the mat, planting the soles of her feet into his stomach, catapulting
him over her head, using the momentum of his attack against him.

In anticipation of a head-first dive, Vaughn lifted his arms over his
head. His palms hit the mat, and he rotated smoothly forward. She rolled backwards with
his momentum and somersaulted until she straddled his chest. Summoning a kiai, a
shout from deep within, she simultaneously aimed a knifehand blow to his neck. He blocked
her strike with an ease that suggested he'd envisioned her attack before she'd even
thought of it.

"A stiffwristed palm to the base of the nose should have been your
choice of a killing blow," he said. "You have the strength to crunch the nose
bones into the brain. Try again."

She started to stand, assuming he meant for them to begin on their feet.
Instead, he pulled her back down with firm gentleness. At his touch, she sensed a mental
weariness that told her he'd taught this exercise more times than he would have liked.
"Hit me. Use the base of your palm."

"I won't"

"Do as I say," he demanded.

Beneath his exterior sternness, she sensed his sympathy for her dislike
of fighting. "I can't just"

"You can. Hit me." He tapped his nose. "Here."

She knew she possessed enough power to drive the tiny bones into his
brain. And she knew he would stop her before she succeeded. Still she hesitated.

Intellectually comprehending that her strike wouldn't succeed was one
thing. Using all her force and skill to attempt to kill a Starfleet officer during a
training exercise was another matter entirely.

Deanna tensed. "I can't."

"Show me the move in slow motion," he ordered.

She did as he asked, stiffening her hand and cocking her wrist at the
required angle.

"That's fine. At least you know the drill."

She rolled off him and sat on the deck, breathing heavily more from
stress than exercise. "Taking a life has never been easy for me."

"When the time comes, you'll react with the necessary amount of
force," he assured her.

"How can you know that?" She hated the taking of life, and she
wondered if she could perform adequately and efficiently to protect herself and her
crewmates in dangerous situations. "I might hesitate at a critical moment."

"You won't."

"How can you say that with such assurance?" In addition to his
words, she felt his complete faith in her.

In the space of a few short minutes, Vaughn had proved that, even though
he was a hardened soldier, he was also a man who didn't use more force than required to do
the job. Neither did he exhibit any joy in fighting. Clearly he understood her dislike of
killing. But the question, she knew, wasn't whether or not she could trust Vaughn. It was
whether she could go through with her decision to join him on the mission.

She reached out empathically, sensed in him complex emotions, feelings
that he reined in tightly, and she'd assessed his deep weariness, at odds with his tough
and energetic exterior. Unable to pinpoint whether he was tired of special operations, the
war, some other aspect of his life, or a combination of the three, she'd come to believe
he had a good heart. Sparring with him suggested he wasn't the type to hurt anyone he
didn't feel compelled to. He valued life. He wasn't a career soldier because he relished
the thrill of battle; in fact, as far as she could tell, he truly hated it. He was doing a
job he didn't want to do, simply because he believed in the objective.

"I know you won't fail when the time comes," he said finally,
"because you have good genes."

Deanna frowned. "You mean from my father."

"Don't sell your mother short, either. Lwaxana is as formidable an
individual as I've ever met. She and Ian" He stopped and looked at her, then,
smiling wistfully. "You probably don't remember the first time we met. You were just
a baby."

"No," Deanna admitted. "But I do remember the last time we
met."

Vaughn's smile faded, and he looked away. "I'm sorry, Deanna,"
he said quietly. "Your father was a good friend to me. He saved my life once, and I'd
have have given anything to do the same for him. I know that doesn't change the fact that
I went home from that last mission, and he didn't."

Deanna didn't know what surprised her more, the fact that her father had
saved Vaughn's life, or the revelation that Vaughn had been there when he died.

Seeming to guess her thoughts, Vaughn shook his head. "The details
aren't important. What matters is that when things were at their worst, Ian Troi always
did what needed doing. Your mother is the same way. And, I suspect, you are too. Believe
me when I tell you that if there was anyone else I could go to so I could spare you all
this, I would."

Deanna felt ashamed then, knowing she would never wish the dilemma she
was faced with on anyone else, but knowing also that to turn her back on it was never
really an option. Where this path she was now on would take her, she didn't know. But her
course, at least, was finally clear.

Deanna got to her feet, offering Vaughn her hand. "Show me
more."

Vaughn looked up at her. A look of sorrow came briefly to his eyes, then
quickly hardened into determination. After a moment, he took her hand and pulled himself
up.

* * *

Tilting her head back, Deanna closed her eyes as the spray of hot water
warmed her skin, soothed her aches, relaxed her mind. After four grueling hours sparring
with Vaughnfollowed by two more hours of combat with holographic Jem'Hadar after Vaughn
had excused himself for another meeting with the captainDeanna went back to her
quarters, stripped off her uniform, stepped into the shower stall and simply let the heat
and steam envelop her. Setting the temperature as hot as she could stand it, the water
massaged her flesh in ways the sonic setting couldn't compare.

Deanna collected water into one cupped hand and then released it, letting
it dribble through her fingers. Plans were proceeding apace now. After weeks of
inactivity, the Enterprise had come alive as repair teams scurried throughout the
ship, battle drills got under way, and new crewmembers rotated aboard from the starbase.
One way or another, it seemed, the assault on Sentok Nor was going forward, though what
would follow was still anyone's guessjust as it was still uncertain how her team were
going to make it to the surface of Darona undetected.

Something stirred suddenly in her mind. As always, she sensed Will's
presence at the door of her quarters before he signaled. "Come in, Will," she
called.

Through the sound of the cascading water, she followed the trail of
Will's emotions as he entered her quarters: his surprise at seeing the combat uniform
tossed carelessly on the floor of her living area; his boyish thrill of realizing she was
in the shower; his gentlemanly hesitation as he realized he'd come at an awkward time.
"You want me to come to come back later?" he called.

Deanna said nothing, her eyes still closed against the water, soaking in
Will's reassuring presence in her mind as she soaked up the heat.

Imzadi...

"Deanna? Did you saying something?"

"Just a second, Will," she said finally, her eyes opening. She
couldn't see past the steam.

"I can come back"

"No, it's all right," she said, turning off the shower.
"Hand me my robe, would you?"

Hesitation again. He was wondering if she was sending him a signal. And
part of her, she realized, was wondering the same thing. Her history with Will was long
and passionate on numerous levels, and always seemed just on the verge of re-igniting,
especially during times of personal crisis.

You really should know better, Deanna, she admonished herself. Try
to remember you're a counselor.

She heard him fumbling for the robe near the entrance to the bathroom.
"That's quite a head of steam you have going in there," he commented.

"Helped me to relax," she said, reaching through the steam.
"You should try it sometime." She could see him now, a silhouette in the mist,
which of course meant that he, in turn, could see her.

He handed her the robe."It seems to be having the opposite effect on
me," he admitted. "But I think you knew that."

She froze. Of course, she thought. Will wasn't empathic, but he
also wasn't likely to forget that she was, and he knew perfectly well that she could read
him like a book, emotionally.

Nudity wasn't an issue to most Betazoids. But realizing that Will had
seen through her, Deanna suddenly felt naked. She quickly wrapped her robe around herself.
"I'm sorry, Will. That was...that was unfair of me. And stupid."

The fog was lifting. She could see his face now. He was smiling at her.
Not mischieviously, but affectionately. "Why? Because you feel that if we gave in to
our impulses, it would be for the wrong reasons, and at the worst possible time?"

"Isn't that how you feel?"

"That's a rhetorical question, Deanna. You know how I
feel."

"Then why do we do this to ourselves?"

"Honestly? Because I think when you get past our suppressed mutual
lust, we actually care about each other too much to risk making this choice just because
we're suddenly afraid it may be our last chance. But either way, it's not something either
of us should feel sorry about."

Deanna smiled crookedly and looked up at him. "Are you after my
job?"

"God, no. Who would want it?"

Will let out a satisfying Oof! as Deanna punched him in the
stomach, after which she reached for a towel and wrapped it around her head as she walked
past him into the living area. "So what does bring you to my quarters at this late
hour, Commander?"

Will made a show of holding his abdomen as he staggered after her.
"Some news that I thought might brighten your evening," he gasped dramatically,
then sobered, grinning in that way he had that came more from his eyes than any other part
of his face. "I just found out how Vaughn expects to get to Darona."